Hurt and Comfort
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Even Sherlock Holmes got sad. Never-mind that he didn't show it until something bad happened... like his Mum dying. Good old John-Sherlock h/c/angst goodness, set after Series Three but no major spoilers.


**Hurt and Comfort**

John trailed Sherlock out of the funeral home, his fingers tightly entwined with Mary's.

Sherlock hadn't spoken since leaving the flat this morning. In fact, he'd barely spoken at all since they had gotten the news from Mycroft: Mrs Holmes had passed away.

He was feeling something, John knew it. He didn't cry during the funeral, barely batted an eyelash when he had told John the news. He hadn't even asked him to come, but John knew that he wanted him there. It was just something Sherlock _couldn't_ ask. That was how he worked. And Sherlock Holmes rarely asked for _anything_, let alone something emotional.

So, John and Mary had gone with Sherlock to the funeral. Sat with him, upon Sherlock's insistence by grabbing his wrist and dragging him to the front row where the family sat. He didn't say a word the entire time and he had left just as silently.

"Is he going to the burial?" Mary asked quietly.

John sighed. "I don't think so. He didn't say he was going to and he's not going with Mycroft, so I would imagine he's getting a cab back home."

"Go with him," Mary said softly.

John just nodded and kissed her, untangling his fingers from hers to go catch up with Sherlock. "I'll be home soon." He strode off after Sherlock.

He didn't say anything as he fell into step so easily next to the detective and neither did Sherlock, although he knew that Sherlock knew he was there. They clamoured into the cab, Sherlock spoke for the first time to say _"221 Baker Street"_ and then lapsed back into silence again.

John followed him upstairs, took off his coat, and went into the kitchen. Contrary to what Sherlock probably thought, he wasn't making tea. Yes, they were English. Tea made everything better, but John was going other comfort food right now.

He made two cups of hot chocolate, carrying them back into the sitting room after adding the marshmallows.

"Here."

Sherlock glanced up from his sprawled out position on the sofa. "... Not tea," he said.

"No. Hot chocolate." John held the mug out.

Sherlock sat up shortly, the tie he'd taken off falling from his chest onto the floor. John picked it up to put on the table after Sherlock had taken the mug of cocoa.

"... Is this some ploy to get me to talk about my emotions?" Sherlock asked, although he took a sip.

"What makes you say that?" John asked, sitting down next to him.

"Hot chocolate," Sherlock murmured. "Mum always used to make it when we were kids."

"Oh."

John had really been hoping for that, to be honest. Tea was comforting, but hot chocolate was comfort _food_. Comfort drink, he guessed. It was more of a childhood drink and he had been hoping... He hadn't just wanted to bring it up like _So... how are we feeling about your Mother's death?_

"I'll be fine, you know," Sherlock said, stirring his hot chocolate, swiping out a few of the marshmallows to put them in his mouth. "I'm really fine."

John sighed. "Don't try to tell me that," he said quietly.

Sherlock didn't respond and just stared into his hot chocolate.

John turned back to his own hot chocolate, sipping at it silently. It would come out. It eventually would, and trying to push Sherlock into talking when he wasn't ready was a disaster just waiting to happen.

He was only alerted to a change of emotion when he glanced up from his hot chocolate and found Sherlock's cheeks streaked with tears. He hadn't changed positions, still staring into his hot chocolate like it was the most intriguing thing to happen in days, but the tear tracks showed something different.

John reached forward and set his own mug down, standing. He went to the bedroom to grab the box of tissues, grabbing a handful to take back to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't look up from his drink until John offered the tissue and even then he paused before swiping it from John's hand.

"I'm not crying."

"I know," John said, mock seriously. "Something got in your eye, yeah?"

"... Smoke," Sherlock muttered, wiping his eyes.

John smiled faintly. "Why do you know that song?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I have no idea." He raised his mug to his lips again, taking a shaky sip.

John leaned back. "You know that you don't have to hide it from me," he said quietly, after a few minutes of silence.

Sherlock sniffed and put his hot chocolate down. "I'm not hiding anything."

"You're not inhuman, you know."

Sherlock sighed shakily, pressing his hands to his eyes. "Unfortunately, John... I have realised that fact."

"Why do you try to act like you're not... around me, at least?" John asked quietly. "I'm not going to laugh at you for it or anything."

"Not my style," Sherlock muttered.

"I've seen the worst of you, Sherlock. Nothing's going to make me back away now."

Sherlock thumbed away tears beneath his eyes. "I'm f-"

"_Don't_ say you're fine," John interrupted.

Sherlock stopped and put his head in his hands again, falling silent. At least he wasn't saying he was fine, but John didn't know if the silence was preferable to it, anyway.

Neither of them moved, leastwise asides from breathing and staring idly at whatever spot they had their eyes fixed on. At least, until John heard a sniffle.

Without a word, he just gripped Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it firmly. He didn't have to say anything... Their relationship rarely involved words to begin with. That was just how they worked.

Sherlock stiffened instantaneously, but the reaction was lost under the sob that broke free from his lips. He doubled over to press his face into his hands, his crying gone audible now.

John just moved his hand down Sherlock's back, rubbing circles with the heel of his hand. "It'll be okay... just get it out," he murmured.

It was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock cry. Like he said, it wasn't his style. It was also, quite apparently, the first time he'd been crying in a long time because it didn't stop. Probably years of repressed sorrow. Because even Sherlock Holmes got sad.

John continued his idle ministrations until Sherlock quieted down. His shoulders had stopped shaking, but he was trembling all over. He sniffled and sat up a bit, making a blind grab for the rest of the tissues John had brought.

"Better?" John asked quietly.

"... No," Sherlock retorted thickly. "Of course not. My nose is all..." He waved his hand towards it and blew his nose heartily. "My eyes are swollen, my throat hurts..." He swallowed audibly and took a deep breath that shook.

John regarded him for a moment before speaking. "I'm going to hug you."

"Oh, John, no-"

Sherlock didn't get the chance to respond, because John had wrapped both of his arms around his thin, shaking body and pulled him close.

Sherlock didn't hug him back - as was general, even if John had only hugged him twice - tense and unyielding in the face of 'physical comfort'.

"... Why?" Sherlock asked, as dryly as he could in the situation.

"Because that's what people do, Sherlock. It makes you feel better."

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock said smartly.

Still, Sherlock relaxed slightly, hesitantly bringing his arms up under John's armpits to hug him back. It was awkward. It was awkward hug. Hadn't Sherlock ever hugged anyone? ... Although, it wouldn't surprise him if he hadn't. John didn't say anything.

"Doesn't it?" John asked quietly. He could feel shivers shooting down Sherlock's spine sporadically beneath his fingers.

Sherlock rest his head slightly against John's shoulder, sighing through his nose. "... No," he mumbled. "Not at all."

John smiled faintly and tightened his grip slightly, briefly.

"... People will talk," Sherlock mumbled thickly.

"I don't care," John said simply.

Sherlock laughed weakly. "That's a first." He pulled his arms away from John and pulled away, sitting up relatively straight again. He rubbed his eyes, placing his face in his hands again.

John stood to go get some more tissues, taking Sherlock's mostly full mug of hot chocolate with him. He dumped it out, rinsed the mug, and poured a cup of steaming tea instead.

"Tissues and tea." He offered both.

Sherlock glanced through his fingers. "... You dumped my hot chocolate?"

"It was cold chocolate. I'll make you more later if you want. Tea now. Blow your nose," he added, handing over the tissues.

Sherlock sighed again, taking the tissues and following John's suggestion.

John glanced at his watch. "Did you want to take a bath?"

Sherlock rubbed his nose. "Why would I? I don't smell," he said, a bit defensively.

John rolled his eyes. "To relax. I can put some of that oil in it."

"... It's coconut oil. Good for the skin," Sherlock muttered. His ears were tinged pink and John couldn't tell if it was because of the fact Sherlock used bath fragrances sometimes or the idea of the crying fit moments ago.

"Well, it does smell nice," John muttered offhand, heading back to the bathroom. "Just drink your tea and I'll run you a nice, hot bath."

Sherlock sighed again. "... John?"

"Hm?" He glanced over his shoulder.

Sherlock watched his hands as he crumbled the tissues he was holding into a ball. "Thank you," he murmured.

John smiled gently. "Any time, Sherlock. Drink that before it gets cold," he said, slipping around the corner of the hall.

Sherlock looked at his tea blankly for a moment before smiling faintly, raising the mug to his lips to take a grateful drink.

* * *

**Good old fashioned emotional, vulnerable hurt and comfort. My headcanon was that his parents were always jerks, and then we found out they ****_aren't_****, and it... well, it gives opportunity for emotions. Because he clearly cares about them... He didn't interrupt Wanda when she was on about the lottery ticket in ****_tEH_****. :p**

**I do not own anything here, but I would love your opinions. Thank you!**


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